She can’t help writhing in his hold, instinctively pressing harder against the length of his body. She’s half lying on top of him now, one hand climbing into his hair to somehow try to merge them closer. She makes a sound low in her throat, something between a moan and a whimper, and all but melts under his mouth.
He tilts his head, wrapping his leg around her own, pulling her closer to him. A soft growl escaped him as he nipped down on her lip again, pulling her on top of him.
The growl makes her shudder, in a good way. There’s an ache low in her body, and there’s not nearly enough skin. Please, she thinks, please Mordred; the thought is tangled up with yearning and need. She kisses harder, craving his mouth, his hands.